


dear professor byleth,

by shizuumi151



Series: this tea is a revelation [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (that’s part of the flirting), Claude bein one schemey boi, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Multi, Mutual Pining, Non-binary My Unit, Other, Pining, Post-Timeskip, Pre-Timeskip, Realising Feelings, Suggestive language, be warned, in the second half of the fic at least, ish? It’s technically true, just not in the trope-y sense, no plot spoilers, tis cheesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 17:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shizuumi151/pseuds/shizuumi151
Summary: The handwriting is much cleaner than Claude’s usual scrawl they recognise in his essays, which make for an apt reflection of himself; carefree in presentation but illuminating in content. It’s much more refined, every press and curve onto the papyrus deliberate, and even artful.Then they begin to read it. It starts with ‘Dear Professor Byleth’, and each line is impossibly more eye-opening than the last.





	dear professor byleth,

“Hiya, Professor! I’ve been looking for you.”

Byleth has to blink, watching Hilda come up to them as they pet a cat lolling in the sun-warm grass. It’s rare that a student comes to them outside of the classroom. Rarer still that that student is Hilda, out of all their cohort.

Watching the monastery tabby whine when they start to stand, Byleth studies it baring its belly to them intently.

It takes a second before they decide to pick it up. They decide they can multitask on this much, as they swaddle it like a baby.

“Afternoon, Hilda,” Byleth greets. Watching the cat luxuriate in their fingers tickling the fur on its belly, they look to her. “What did you need?”

“Aw, Professor, aren’t you’re just adorable!” she giggles. “I just wanted to chat with you. Oh, and to pass on a letter to you.” Fishing an envelope out of her pocket, she hands it over with a beam. “Here you go!”

The cat snuggles up to Byleth’s chest, and they tend to it with their cradling arm and tickling fingers, focus still fixed on Hilda and her letter.

“Is it something private you wish to discuss?” they ask, even as they pick the envelope from her hands. “I’m happy to read it, regardless.”

They take a moment to examine the stationery of it. The paper is clean brown and weighty, a dark wax seal on the front that, while the design contained a simple diamond, glittered a captivating crimson in different angles of the light. If they focused, they could detect a clean, herbal scent from the paper. Holding earthy notes, a tickling of spices they had never smelt before. It seems unlike Hilda’s style.

“Oh, no, it’s not from me.” She shakes her head. “Claude asked me to give it to you.”

At that, Byleth takes pause. The cat rolls out of their grip, and they let it go as they study Hilda more carefully, brows notching the slightest.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Hm?” Hilda blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not one to do errands for others.”

“Professor, I’m shocked!” She pulls a face, eyes shining with her pout. “Is it really so unbelievable that I’d do something for someone else. And for my dear classmate and house leader, no less?”

Byleth’s stare is like drywall.

“There’s really no getting past you, is there?” Even with a sigh, her delightful smile is quick to come back. “I was coming over to talk to you anyway. Besides, I don’t mind doing little things like passing notes for a friend.”

The reasoning makes it more palatable, and Byleth pockets the letter while they spend time chatting with Hilda. After they stress that, no, she may not postpone weed duty to next week, they return to their own quarters to check the contents of Claude’s letter.

The handwriting is much cleaner than Claude’s usual scrawl they recognise in his essays, which make for an apt reflection of himself; carefree in presentation but illuminating in content. It’s much more refined, every press and curve onto the papyrus deliberate, and even artful.

Then they begin to read it. It starts with ‘_Dear Professor Byleth_’, and each line is impossibly more eye-opening than the last.

> _…a captivating speaker, spellbinding leader…an unparalleled gravitas to your delivery, I’m left hanging on every word…for how brilliant your mind is, I long to see that brilliance shine through on your features, ever composed and ethereal…I am ashamed and enthralled to admit how your station as a teacher has me forgetting mine as your student…_
> 
> _With all my love,_
> 
> _Your admirer._

Like with anything else, letters come to an end. But Byleth’s breath threads thin when they stop on the last word, their eyes jump to different points on the letter, on the clean cursive that sing sweet, eloquent praise to their name.

Byleth’s first thought is that it may be from someone else. Hilda herself said the letter was from Claude, but it doesn’t sound like him. But the flowery language might be him putting in an effort to express his feelings to them.

As soon as Byleth considers the possibility, minute features of the letter stick out like thorns. Pricking at their brain, demanding their attention. The quality of the stationery that not many students would be able to afford, fit for a noble, perhaps even an heir of a country. Most of all, the scent of the envelope. Like the fresh air of a forest, the spices of a foreign tea, a minty soap leaving tingles lingering in their senses.

It smells like Claude.

The room grows warm, and their throat closes. It sticks together from being dry, their swallow doesn’t remedy it. Byleth realises that their palms have gone clammy, jittery all of a sudden. They can’t stop reading the letter, over and over.

_With all my love._

Claude’s love.

_He loves me?_

Byleth’s pulse quickens at their neck. They’ve sat down without realising. They’re reading over the letter, still.

Their chair scrapes against the wooden floor. Their coat billows behind them as they begin to pace in their room, brow creased, heart lodged in their mouth, heating up their head.

Byleth knows nothing of matters of the heart. Their skills with a blade are useless on the battlefield of love. But in this school of nobles and empires and Crests and religion, Claude is the rock they sorely need. A comforting counterpoint to the pomp and fluff that stuffs the walls of Garreg Mach’s ancient establishment.

But they are his professor. Claude is their student. Their bright, easygoing, charming student. Who they share tea with once a week, talking of mysteries and history and strange fish that wade through the ponds, and Claude makes a point to quell the anxieties and discomfort and ignorance Byleth feels on a weekly, if not daily basis.

Byleth thought Claude fascinated them. He does fascinate them. But they thought that was all it was.

But if this is how they are reacting to his letter, then perhaps…

They stop to feel their own forehead, clutching the back of their chair. They feel feverish. There’s a twinge to their cheeks, like they might smile. They think they might be running a temperature, or going mad entirely.

_What is this?_ Byleth thinks desperately, eyes darting. _What am I…_

_Isn’t it obvious?_ The voice in their head interjects, and it stops Byleth in their tracks like Sothis had never spoken to them before. It rings girlish, knowing, and smug about it all the while. _You’re interested in him._

The emphasis on _interested_ is heavy, laden with connotation. It makes Byleth feel years younger, even though this is the first time they’ve ever felt this way. Or felt so strongly about anything at all.

_But I understand your hesitation,_ Sothis muses, just as it sloshes at the back of their mind. _Charming as though he may be, he is your pupil. And though you do not appear to be much older than him, reciprocating may be at the expense of your time here, other students, and perhaps even his growth._

Byleth closes their mouth, only then realising it had been hanging open. They nod, once and meek.

_Of course I understand. At this point, I wager I know your mind as closely as I do my own,_ she says, almost preens. Her huff echoes in their head. _Or so I claim to. I do not think you would be at fault if you were to follow your heart, truly speaking._ Byleth can feel them receding, voice fading further to the back of their mind. _But the path you carve must be your own, in the end._

Sothis goes quiet, returning to rest. Byleth is left alone again.

They gather their thoughts like scattered paper across the ground, righting them as they collect each one. When they go back to the letter, picking it up like it were gossamer, and poring over it like it were a map to some great treasure, the small, small smile that graces their lips is as unsure as it is hopeful.

_I can talk to him about this,_ they reason.

Resolving this, they fold and tuck away the letter up as neatly as it came. Engraving the fibre of the paper into their memory, they take a long blink, a deep breath, the forest and spices surrounding them, before stowing the envelope in their drawer.

* * *

They bring the letter up with Claude over tea.

“Oh, hey, so you got it in the end, huh? Didn’t think Hilda would actually get it to you anytime this week, if I’m honest.”

Taking a sip of the chamomile Byleth prepared, he laces his fingers after setting the cup down with a clack, keyed in to their remarks as ever. Byleth's chest shakes like a leaf blown about in the Guardian Moon, and they draw in a breath chest-deep to steel themselves.

“I wanted to talk about it. To talk to you about it, and…respond properly.”

Claude looks surprised, gazing at them from across the table, and Byleth barrels on with what momentum they’ve gained.

“I’ve thought long and hard about it, and I’m happy you feel that way about me, truly. But. In the end, I… I don’t— I do not think, rather, that…it would be wise for us, to be…together. Um.” Byleth’s gulp reaches the pits of their stomach, from how deeply they do it. Their cheeks are alight and their hands feel aflame. “That is, I—”

“Whoa, whoa, Teach. Hold up.”

Claude puts his hands up, and Byleth stops on command. Despite his eyes focused solely on them, clever and kind with a smile that never seems to leave his face, his face is tinged with colour.

“I, uh, think there might be a misunderstanding here,” Claude says, wry and well-meaning as ever. “Is this to do with that letter?”

“I…” Words fail them. As soon as the words left Claude’s mouth, Byleth’s mind started racing and slowing all at once. They resort to a nod.

“And I suppose it’s a love letter,” Claude hedges. Cocking his head, like he can see the different angle to the situation. “Right?”

Byleth closes their mouth. They nod again.

“Right. I should’ve guessed.” Threading his fingers through his hair, Claude lets out a sigh. “Teach, I didn’t write that.”

The world stops under Byleth’s feet. Even as they’re seated, they feel like they might fall over.

“You…didn’t?”

Claude’s lips draw thin, and he just shakes his head. Byleth ends up peering at the tablecloth, frowning.

“But… Hilda said it was from you.”

They look up at Claude, voice soaked with confusion. They only see his eyes cast aside, closing when he hums in thought.

“Well, I guess that makes sense. I handed it to her saying it was for you, after all,” he muses, as if he were thinking through it himself. Then he looks back to Byleth. “But I’m afraid I didn’t write it. One of the students asked me to give it to you, and looking back on it, they seemed pretty nervous about giving it to you themselves. Hilda mentioned she was on her way to see you, though, so I just asked her to pass on the message.”

Their cooling cup of tea takes the brunt of Byleth’s stare, as they take in the information. Thinking back on the letter’s contents, it didn’t sound like something Claude would say.

“…The smell,” Byleth murmurs. At Claude’s noise of interest, they realise they’ve said it aloud. “I…thought it smelt like you.”

“Oh. Well, I was carrying it for a while this morning…” Claude scratches his chin with a mumble, his cheeks tinting. “I hope I didn’t make it smell too bad.”

It strikes Byleth, how boyish Claude seems while clearing up this misunderstanding. Yet throughout it all remaining patient by the whole affair, the smile still wreathed on his lips a little softer than before, but not at all awkward. In the face of Byleth’s own embarrassment, it’s somehow comforting to see.

“You didn’t,” Byleth tells him, smiling as well. “It smelt nice.”

Inviting Claude’s gaze to meet theirs, they feel their chest growing lighter. Like the weight of the hours before their tea time were being removed, stone by stone.

“Oh?” Claude says, his own grin growing. “Never thought I’d ask this, but now you got me curious. What do I smell like?”

“The forest. Woods and spices.” The comparison that went non-stop in Byleth’s head rolls off their tongue like a stream. “Quite masculine.”

“C’mon now, Teach. You’re gonna give me a bigger head than I need, saying all that.” He brushes his nose with a finger in a wink. “But hey, I’m flattered you’d take the time out to let me down easy, even if I wasn’t the one who wrote that. Shows that you care, you know?” His smile softens as he leans onto the table, as comfortable and tuned in as ever. “I appreciate it.”

“Well…” Byleth trails off, their hands cupped around their tea. “That would be because I do care.”

The words leave their mouth before they even know it. Looking up, all they see is Claude’s smile. Gentle and light-hearted as ever, but this time, some of it sneaks into his eyes, and the sight holds Byleth’s breath captive.

“Careful, Teach. Keep this up and you might tempt me to write you a love letter for real,” he teases. At the sound he garners from Byleth, a force behind their breath that one could even call a snort, there’s a twinkle in his eye with his grin. “I gotta say, planning to let your secret admirer down over tea? You really know how to give a guy mixed signals.”

“That’s…” Byleth mumbles, pursing their lips. They buy themselves time taking a long sip, the chamomile cold in their mouth. “I don’t know about these things. This is the first time I’ve had to address something like this.”

“Yeah?” Claude busies himself with the teapot, topping up Byleth’s cup before his. “I suppose a secret admirer’s different to being in a relationship.”

“I suppose,” Byleth echoes. The scent of chamomile wafts to their face, warm like a quilt in the cold. “I’ve never experienced that, either.”

“Really?” It catches Byleth off-guard, how Claude sounds so taken aback. “Ah, I’m sorry. I realise how that sounded, but I’m just surprised. I thought people would be tripping over themselves to ask you out, mercenary or no.”

His chin rests on the steeple of his knuckles, looking at Byleth like they make up the pages of a book in the library he loves to lose sleep over. It makes Byleth blush, as they start talking about themselves, more so than they expected to.

Their chat over time delves into their respective love lives, or lack thereof. Claude admits to having a handful of crushes in the past, but nothing substantial nor formative, given his training and duties as an heir. The conversation meanders to the status of nobility in Fòdlan, and a critique of the country’s power structure looping back to the Central Church’s monopoly on the state. It’s a topic Byleth expects as inevitable and still finds just as illuminating, coming from Claude.

Even as they head back to their quarters, Byleth thinks on what Claude has said. Love lives and Fòdlan’s flaws and all.

_Don’t you look pleased with yourself,_ Sothis remarks, arms crossed as she materialises in the corner of their mind, their room. _Even if things didn’t turn out as expected, you still have his good company. He may even be fond of you yet._

At the idea that Claude of clasping their hand, admitting to having written the letter and the depth of his affection, Byleth shakes their head.

_Just who do you take me for?_ Sothis scolds, the undertone to her chiding familiar and motherly. _Don’t think you can lie to yourself, much less to me! One look at the smile on your face and it’s clear as day._

Their fingers fly up to their lips. Sure enough, they’re stretched in a grin, and the muscles working to keep it there feel alien.

_Ah, love. I’ll never tire of how it changes mortals. An afternoon of tea with him and you look your age, for once._

_You ought not lose sight of what matters, though. There is something peculiar going on, in this monastery and with Rhea. If your path leads you to the heart of that mystery, no matter what, Claude will aid you._ With a shake of her head, she starts to fade again, reclining on thin air. _Of that, you can make no mistake._

The words echo in Byleth’s head, even after Sothis sinks back into their unconscious. As the night grows cool and dark, they wander back to their desk drawer, fishing out the letter that upended their entire weekend.

They never asked Claude who the sender was. They figure it to be a moot point, with the discretion that surrounded its delivery. Even though it didn’t come from who Byleth expected, or even hoped it to be, a strange sense of gratitude washes over them. They never would have considered their feelings deeper, had they not received this letter.

Reading over it once more, they send a silent apology to the sender in their thoughts, for how much Claude fills their mind with the foolish smile teases their lips.

### 7 years later.

Even in its teething stages, the country learns of peace under Byleth and Claude’s rule. The sun starts climbing higher and higher during the Harpstring Moon, casting the waters of Derdriu aglow, the light bouncing off their ripples blinding even from the city palace’s walls.

The reflection and imminent nostalgia that the Great Tree Moon brings catches up to Byleth late. They end up reading over their first and only love letter from their professorship at Garreg Mach in their and Claude’s shared study, the curve to their lip seeping in like dawn.

A knock on the door, and it draws Byleth’s attention as if rousing them from a dream. Claude peeks his head through the door, and Byleth can only return the smile he gives with a beaming one of their own.

“There you are, my love. I was looking for you.” Claude comes up to them in an easy stride, leaning over to kiss their cheek. Glancing down, he hums seeing the yellowed paper in their hands. “Oh? I wasn’t told we’d received a message.”

“We didn’t. I was simply reminiscing.” Byleth shows him the letter in a turn of their wrist. “You remember the whole incident with the love letter back in the academy, don’t you?”

Catching the cursive script on the front, Claude’s eyes grow wide. His jaw hangs open in surprise, and Byleth chuckles at the adorable display.

“You…kept it all this time?”

“Of course. My first love letter, and a lot of care was put into it,” Byleth explains, like they had never left the classroom at Garreg Mach behind, or it had never truly left them. ”Besides, unfair as it may be to the original sender, it’s what made me realise my feelings for you.”

They smooth out the paper against the desk, smile still warm on their face. Their gaze traces over the letter and its darkened creases fondly.

Claude clears his throat. Byleth turns to him scratching the back of his head, looking uneasy.

“What is it?” they ask, puzzled.

“So, I feel I should come clean about it. No better time than the present and whatnot.”

“We are not keeping another wyvern litter.”

“No, it’s not that. Well, hold that thought, because we totally have the space and resources to do that if needed. But I’m getting off-track here.” Shaking his head, he flashes his beloved a charming, guilty grin. “I…may have lied to you, back when I was your student.”

Byleth frowns. “May have?”

“Okay, scratch that, I did lie,” Claude admits. “About that letter…_not_ being from me, I mean.”

There’s a keen sense of déjà vu. The ground stopping, Byleth stilling in a wave of surprise. Not unlike the tea party they’d shared with their now husband, all those years ago.

Byleth picks up the letter, scrutinising it heavier than they’ve had in years. Their eyes trace the loops of the intricate cursive, the language that was elevated and heartfelt in the same stroke.

They look back up with Claude with narrowed eyes. When he takes it with a gulp and a chewed grin, Byleth narrows them further.

“It’s not your handwriting.”

“Well, not at the time, but it is from when I was younger,” he explained. “Channelled my inner kid who had to take noble etiquette lessons on the daily to write it.”

“It’s quite ornate.” Byleth peers up at him. “Not like something you’d say.”

“I thought breaking out some two-gold words would throw off the scent. Plus I could channel my inner poet saying what I wanted to. Two birds, one stone kind of deal.”

“So that story of a student wanting to pass this on through you?”

“_Yeah_,” Claude hisses, dragging out the vowel like a ball and chain. “Not exactly the truest thing I’ve said.”

Byleth looks over the letter again, pouting. Turning it to Claude one more time, they highlight the letterhead, underlining ‘_Professor Byleth,_’ with their finger.

“I mean, writing ‘Teach’ would’ve been great if I wanted to make it a dead giveaway,” Claude drawls. Even when Byleth’s hands drop to their sides in a sigh, they don’t let go of the letter. He gives them another weak smile. “Still taking questions if you’ve got any.”

Byleth looks down at the ground. Out of the myriad swirling in their head, they look to Claude with a simple shrug.

“Why?”

“I’ll explain, if you’ll humour me,” he says, clasping his hands together. “For the record, I want to make clear that I _did_ have feelings for you writing and giving you that letter. I might have lied about it being from me, but I meant every word I wrote in it. It’s also the only time I ever told you a lie. It was one and done, I promise you.

“But, uh, onto the explaining part.” Clearing his throat, he seeks out Byleth’s mercy with an awkward smile. “Do you happen to remember those schemes I was so fond of at the time, by any chance?”

Byleth closes their eyes. They can feel the ghost of Sothis’s laughter at them, when they open them to Claude taking in a deep breath.

“So, I had feelings for you. More and sooner than I expected, really. But I also wanted you to open up about your thoughts on love without our then tender friendship going pear-shaped. So I thought, what if I could let you know how I was feeling, not suffer any possible rejection, _and_ get you to open up on love with me?” As he speaks, Claude counts off each part with his fingers. “And so I whipped up a little scheme to get the three-in-one I was looking for. A victimless scheme, so to speak. It worked leagues better than I expected. I still remember your stutter. It was the most you’d ever spoken at a time back then.

“But honestly, I thought you’d forgotten about it. I know I did,” he chuckles. “I told myself I’d tell you the truth about the letter if we’d ever gotten together, but it had been so many years that it slipped my mind! It’s really touching that you kept it all this time, though. I can feel my past self breaking out into song as we speak.

“So, how about it, love of my life and my stars above?” Claude tries with a grin. “Let bygones be bygones?”

Byleth gives him one blink. Holding the letter, they fold it up with the care they always have, along the deep creases into a slip that slots easily into the envelope it first came in. The flap doesn’t stay fully closed with the wax seal broken, and Byleth slides the letter away into their personal drawer.

Walking up to Claude, who watched with his teeth wearing through his inner cheek, they plant a sweet, languid kiss on his lips. When they pull away, he looks as surprised as the day they sprung a kiss on him for the first time.

“Thank you, Claude, for writing me that letter.”

His smile gleams like a crescent moon, eyes twin jade stars. They let him steal another kiss from them, before leading him to the door with a tug on his wrist.

“Love? Where are we heading?” Claude says, brows dancing while he sports a roguish grin. “The sun’s pretty high up for the bedroom, but I wouldn’t object to it.”

“Training grounds,” Byleth says.

“The training grounds?” Claude looks up, brow scrunching in thought. “I’m all for unorthodox, but we should probably check no one will be there before—”

“We’re going to spar.”

“That’s…” Claude trails off, grimacing. “Out of all the S-words I was hoping to hear, that is definitely not one of them.”

“With lances.”

“Lances?” he squeaks. He tries tugging his wrist away from Byleth, to no avail. “Honey, with _lances?_”

“You lied to me as a student. You’ll be punished as a student.”

“You don’t mean in the fun roleplay sense, do you?” Claude says, voice wooden. Byleth keeps tugging him along by his wrist, grip strength superhuman, and he starts putting up a token struggle. “Come on, honey! Dearest! Sweetest of pies— Aren’t we above swapping blows? Haven’t we moved onto diplomacy in this post-wartime age, this era of peace we heralded together…?!”

“Best of five.”

“_Five_?! I won’t last the one!” Claude claws at the grand study door on his way out, his wails sounding throughout the corridors. “_Byleth,_ my love, be reasonable…!”

### coda.

By the time Byleth claims their victory, echoes of clashing wood lingering on the grounds, the sun’s dipped below the hills.

“That was good practice,” Byleth blows out a breath, starting to relax with their training lance in hand. “I didn’t realise how rusty I’d gotten.”

“If you were rusty just now, then I’m defunct,” Claude pants like his lungs will fall out his mouth. Bent over at the waist, he leans on his lance like it’s a walking stick, sweat dripping from his face. “I am sore…in _so_ many ways I don’t want to be right now…”

“You held your own well for the most part, but your stamina has gone down,” Byleth remarks evenly. They store their lance as Claude moans. “Let’s see if that’s true in bed as well.”

Looking behind their shoulder, Byleth smirks at Claude already looking up at them in wonder. They take their time sauntering up to him, taking a finger to his chin to tip it up, so he can take in the breadth and depth of their playful grin before they whisper in his ear.

“I’d be remiss as your professor if I didn’t punish you properly.”

They let their teeth graze the soft of Claude’s lobe, tracing his jawline as he shivers. They start walking away, and he’s spell-bound watching them go.

“You should know, my love,” Claude says as he bounds to his feet, lance in hand and the stars in his smile, “that there is _always_ room for dessert.”

**Author's Note:**

> byleth: do you know why i called you to my office  
claude: i know i’m sorry i sent you that love letter by accident  
byleth, stopping mid-pour with two glasses of wine: accident?  
  
This was pretty much the premise then it blew up into nearly 5k words, i have zero excuses. Lmk if you liked it! <3
> 
> tumbly link  
twitty link


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